


Hope is a Good Breakfast

by pantsoflobster



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, i cant believe i wrote this its not e/r at all, waffle shapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:31:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoflobster/pseuds/pantsoflobster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cosette had stepped into this kitchen less than an hour ago, it had been a quiet, empty room bearing only whispers of the lives of the people who lived in this house. But it was filling up, and each person that set foot in the room was like another piece of the house’s soul adding to the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hope is a Good Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> "Hope is a good breakfast, but it is a bad supper."  
> -Francis Bacon
> 
> The latter half of that quote really does not apply at all but 
> 
> Okay this takes place in a universe created by the lovely Meera (combeferrestateofmind.tumblr.com) well actually it takes place in a universe based on her universe because it's not exactly the same in some respects. But this house in which they all live is essentially the house she came up with. Some of the characterization and some of the little things are inspired by her thoughts as well. BIG THANKS TO HER FOR BEING COOL WITH ME HIJACKING HER HOUSE  
> not her legit house i wish I could hijack her legit house but she's halfway around the world  
> I don't mean i wish i could hijack her house with malicious intent I   
> im going to stop talking bye

The first time Cosette met Marius’s friends, it had been an accident.

She wasn’t supposed to stay all night. But one thing had led to another and suddenly she was waking up tucked into Marius’s side beneath the sunlight that streamed onto his bed. The house was quiet but she knew it wasn’t empty. They’d gotten in late last night and hadn’t run into a single soul, but Marius had assured her that the house was full of life. They’d gone straight to his room and never left. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think Marius was making up his plethora of friends and housemates to make it seem less ridiculous for a rich boy like himself to live in such a big house all alone.

Cosette decided to confirm their existence for herself. She slipped from the bed without waking Marius, who didn’t so much as stir. She picked from the floor her leggings and the light blue button-down Marius had been wearing the night before, putting them on before emerging from the room.

She found her way to the kitchen rather easily. She never actually doubted him, but immediately she could see that Marius was not making up imaginary housemates. The notes all over the refrigerator, the bottles covering the counter, the jackets strewn on chairs and the various books and papers littering all surfaces. Cosette tiptoed into the room, wrapping her arms around herself and looked around.

As she stood to read the colorful notes posted all over the refrigerator, something furry grazed her bare foot and rubbed against her leg. She looked down and her eyes met the prettiest calico she’d ever seen.

“Good morning,” she said, smiling as the cat rubbed its face on her offered hand.

“Her name is Descartes,” came a soft and calm voice from the entrance to the kitchen. Cosette straightened up immediately to see a young man with sandy hair and glasses, sporting a ratty brown graphic T-shirt and carrying a book tucked under his arm. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, coming into the kitchen to begin making coffee.

“Oh, you didn’t, it’s fine,” she said. “I’m Cosette.”

At this he turned to look at her. “Oh _you’re_ Cosette. ‘Cosette’ has been every other word out of Marius’s mouth for weeks.”

She smiled and blushed, crouching to pet Descartes once more.

“I’m Combeferre,” he said, putting the spoon he had in the coffee can down momentarily to extend to her. She took it and shook it firmly. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

“You too, I’ve heard so much about you all but I hadn’t met a single one of you. When we came in last night no one was around. I was beginning to suspect Marius had ten imaginary friends to help pay the rent.”

Combeferre laughed at this, a soft, pleasing chuckle. “Give them an hour. Once they all wake up and are after coffee and breakfast, you’ll see there’s nothing imaginary about them. Do you drink coffee?”

“I do.”

Combeferre added another spoonful to the coffeemaker. “Did you happen to notice if there’s a girl sleeping on the couch in there?” he asked, pointing his spoon toward the living room.

“There is,” a tired voice called. Combeferre added one more spoonful of coffee grounds. There was a thud that sounded like a body deliberately rolling from the couch to the floor, and soon enough Eponine was shuffling into the kitchen and plopping into a chair at the table. “Morning, ‘Ferre,” she mumbled.

“Hey, Eponine!” Cosette said, only mildly surprised to find her here.

“Oh hi, Cosette,” she said, her heavy eyelids adding to her muddled expression.

“Eponine crashes here a lot,” Combeferre explained.

Eponine folded her arms on the table and laid her head in them, closing her eyes. “Are we doing waffles this morning? It’s Saturday. I think we should do waffles.”

“When did you get in last night?” Combeferre asked, pressing a button on the coffeemaker. He then reached overhead to the cupboard over the stove. He began trying to extract what Cosette presumed to be the waffle iron from the jumble of precariously stacked odds and ends.

“Late,” Eponine answered. “Could even call it early.”

“Must have been after we got in, I don’t think you were there when we came through,” Cosette said.

Combeferre had successfully produced two completely different waffle irons from the messy cabinet. One was square and seemingly much older, and the other was round and a bit more modern. He turned toward Cosette and she backed out of the way so that he could open the refrigerator.

“Oh my god,” Cosette said with a smile. “I didn’t even notice what your T-shirt was until now.”

Combeferre had to look down to remember what he was even wearing, then throwing his head back with a slightly embarrassed smile. The shirt he was wearing had a cartoonish illustration of Rene Descartes’ head with the caption “ _I Doubt, Therefore I Might Be”._

“Have a little obsession there?” Cosette said, jokingly.

“I just like Descartes, okay?”

At that moment, a new face entered the kitchen and threw an accusing finger in Combeferre’s direction. “What do you think you’re doing with those?”

He put his hands up in defense. “It’s a Saturday where everyone’s home, I’m making waffles.”

“No you’re not, Feuilly is.” And he disappeared in the direction he’d come.

“That’s Bahorel,” Combeferre explained. Soon enough, Bahorel returned with another man in tow who seemed barely awake.

“What am I doing?” he asked as Bahorel maneuvered him towards the refrigerator.

“Waffles.”

“Can’t I have coffee first? Is anyone even up yet?”

“I am. And Combeferre. And Eponine’s here. And…” Bahorel’s gaze rested on Cosette. “You are?”

“Cosette,” she said, extending her hand.

“ _Oh,_ ” he drawled. “Pontmercy’s girl. Welcome to the homestead. I’m Bahorel, this,” he said, clapping a hand on the other man’s shoulder, “is Feuilly. He’s the chef around here. I wasn’t about to let Combeferre throw together some half-assed batter when we could have Feuilly waffles.”

“Nice to meet you both,” she said. Slowly, she was recognizing names from things Marius had told her and matching them with faces. She realized Bahorel was the one who’d accidentally pulled Marius’s bedroom door right off the hinges a few months ago. Combeferre is the one who knows where everyone is supposed to be at all times and constantly reminds Marius he has class when he’s forgotten himself.

She pulled herself up and perched on a bit of counter out of everyone’s way and sipped her coffee.  Combeferre had gone to sit across the table from Eponine who may or may have not gone back to sleep with her head on her folded arms. He’d brought his book and his mug plus another, which he slid across the table for the girl when she woke up. Bahorel was pulling ingredients from the cabinets and the refrigerator and laying them on the counter for Feuilly, who was waking up and getting his bearings. He eventually set to business and began measuring flour into a large mixing bowl.

Bahorel leaned on the counter beside Cosette. “See, we don’t use any of that bullshit pancake mix around here,” he boasted. “You come to our house, you get the real thing. Everything’s from scratch.”

Cosette laughed.  “I’m not used to this. My dad can cook, but he doesn’t know how to make breakfast if it isn’t strictly from the toaster.”

“Blasphemy,” Feuilly said, cracking eggs into the bowl.

“Do I hear the sounds of Saturday waffles?” came a female voice from the doorway. A woman enters with dark, loose curls spilling over a pale pink dressing gown. She made her way to the stove, lifting the tea pot and taking it to the sink.

“Morning, Chetta,” Bahorel said. “Have you met Cosette?”

The girl looked to see whom he was talking about. “No, I haven’t!” She set the teapot down on the stove, and turned it on. “I’m Musichetta,” she said. “Wow, you really are as beautiful as he says.”

“Oh, thank you,” Cosette said, blushing.

Musichetta took three mugs and set them on the counter. “Nice to have a blonde around the house, it’s normally just me and Ponine and all these boys. You’re like a ray of sunshine.” As she spoke, she’d selected three different types of teabags from a cabinet and put one in each mug. “The boys are still asleep,” she mentioned offhandedly.

“Cosette,” Feuilly said, whisking his batter together. “Do you prefer circular or square waffles?”

 “I don’t care, I’ll take either.”

“You have to have a preference,” Bahorel said. “Everyone does. It’s subconscious. You don’t realize until it’s too late and you’re digging into the wrong shape of waffle.”

“Is that so?” Cosette giggled.

“I know everyone’s waffle shape. I can commit one more to memory,” Feuilly said.

She sincerely pondered her waffle shape preference for a moment before saying, “I think I like circular waffles.”

“Hmm,” Musichetta said with a knowing smile. “Interesting…”

“Why interesting?” Cosette asked.

“Pontmercy takes his square,” Bahorel explained.

“I would definitely expect that. He’s totally a square waffle person,” she said.

“See?” Bahorel said. “It’s a completely identifiable character trait.”

Cosette looked up thoughtfully. “I bet… you like circles,” she said, pointing to Bahorel. Then she pointed to Musichetta.  “And so do you. But Feuilly, you like yours square.”

“Three for three,” Bahorel said. “Keep going. Do Combeferre and Eponine.”

“Combeferre: square, and Eponine: circle.”

Laughter rumbled through the kitchen. “You’re a natural,” Musichetta said, passing by with her mug of tea to sit at the table. There had been the sounds of footsteps on the stairs and soon enough two more young men were coming into the small kitchen.

“Okay, wait, stop right there.” Bahorel grabbed Cosette’s arm and she turned around to look at them. “You don’t know these two at all. Based on their appearances alone, tell me their shapes.”

The two looked confused, and the dark-haired one on the left said, “What the fuck?” Bahorel shushed him. He was taller than the other, with sleep-mussed dark curls and a deep green V-neck over plaid pajama pants. The other was smaller and more delicate. His sandy hair was tossed over his shoulder in a loose braid tied with a blue bow. He was sporting an oversized beige cable-knit sweater with faded floral print pajama bottoms.

Cosette scrutinized them, stroking her chin thoughtfully. She pointed to the smaller one first. “I’m gonna say… he does circles and he does squares.”

Bahorel sucked air through his teeth. “You almost had it perfect.  They both do circles.”

“No!” Cosette threw her hands up in distress. “I was doing so well.”

“Can we move now?” the one with the braid asked.

“Oh yeah, sorry. This is Cosette,” Bahorel said, gesturing to her as she gave a little wave. “How do you feel about that, Courfeyac? She thinks you’re a square waffle kind of guy at first glance.”

The taller one laid a hand on his chest as if injured. “Is that really the kind of impression I give?”

“Cosette!” the other squeaked, running up to her and taking her hand. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. My name is Jehan,” he said, kissing the hand he was holding.

“Jehan,” she repeated. “I’ve read some of your poetry. It’s absolutely lovely.”

“Why, thank you,” he said, blushing.

“I’m surprised!” she said to Bahorel. “The square waffle lovers are way outnumbered.”

“That is because,” Courfeyrac said as he got himself coffee. “Circle waffles are clearly superior and square waffles are for squares.”

“The derogatory comments are unnecessary,” Combeferre called from the table.

When Cosette had stepped into this kitchen less than an hour ago, it had been a quiet, empty room bearing only whispers of the lives of the people who lived in this house. But it was filling up, and each person that set foot in the room was like another piece of the house’s soul adding to the others. It warmed her to know that this was the place where Marius was a part of that soul, the place she’d heard so much about. It was the other half of his life; it was the half of his life that was not hers. But as she looked around to each of these people, these friends moving around each other and talking and laughing, she hoped she could become part of it, too.

                 

Within the next hour, the kitchen had reached full capacity. Cosette had met Joly and Bossuet when they’d stumbled out of their room, and they were now sitting at the dining room table with Musichetta. They were joined by Combeferre and Eponine, who had moved to accommodate those who’d come into the kitchen later. Enjolras had emerged from his room off the kitchen not long after she’d met Courfeyrac and Jehan, and she’d recognized him right away as the steadfast, stoic leader Marius spoke of. Grantaire had stumbled in through the sliding door, coming from his backyard shed that was fully finished and livable. She didn’t wonder long which one he was; he was clearly hung-over and spent most of his time watching Enjolras when he spoke. Cosette had sat with them at the kitchen table, where Jehan and Courfeyrac had sat also. It turned out Enjolras was the only square waffle man at the table, though he wore his preference with pride.

When Marius finally walked into the kitchen, Cosette was in the middle of throwing her head back in laughter at something Grantaire had said. This inconvenienced Jehan, who was weaving her hair into a fishtail braid.

“Well, good morning, nice of you to join us,” Cosette called to him, shaking her head.  

“How long have you been out here?” Marius asked, rubbing his head.

“I was the first one up,” she said with a smile. “I got to meet everyone one by one as they woke up.”

“Oh no,” Marius said, suddenly worried as if they might have told her awful things while he was sleeping.

“Oh, calm down,” Cosette said. “They’re all wonderful.”

Eponine came into the kitchen, crossing to put her plate in the sink. “Jesus, you slept for ages.”  She’d woken up fully some time ago and had quickly become part of the morning ruckus around the kitchen.

“Ponine, do you have a hairtie?” Jehan asked, holding the end of the braid in Cosette’s hair. She pulled one off her wrist and handed it to him. He finished off the fishtail and said, “Marius, your girlfriend is a princess from a fairytale.”

“Oh stop, I am not,” she protested humbly.

“God, you’re finally awake,” Feuilly said, pouring batter into the square waffle iron. “I’ve been waiting to be done with waffles so I can clean up.”

“Look at this,” Courfeyrac said to Marius, gesturing to Cosette’s plate where there laid an uneaten quarter of her waffle. 

A sudden despair came over Marius’s face. “You’re a circle waffle person?”

“That’s it,” Grantaire said. “Waffle shape preferences are incompatible. Relationship over.”

“What, did you think I was a _square_ waffle person?” Cosette said with playful distaste.

“Look at her,” Courfeyrac said. “Speaking our language already.”

Jehan was smiling and stroking her braided hair. “She fits right in.”

“Looks like you picked a winner, Pontmercy,” Bahorel said as he handed Marius his waffle on a plate, complete with fork, knife and fresh strawberries. He was smiling tenderly at Cosette as he took the only empty seat at the kitchen table.

“Except she did think I did square waffles at first,” Courfeyrac complained.

“I’m sorry!” she said, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “I hadn’t even met you; now that I know you I _never_ would have said that about you.”

“I guess that counts for something.”

Cosette smiled at him and then at Marius. She was trying to silently thank him for bringing her into his home, into his family.  It made her feel that she was truly special to him. She wondered how she could return the sentiment; she could, of course, take him home to her father, but dinner with a solitary old man would never compare to this. This house was alive and she could feel herself becoming a part of it. She had slipped in so seamlessly and they had engulfed her, taken her in without a second thought. Last night, they’d only been a bunch of disembodied names with entertaining stories attached, and now she could see each of them as a living cell that made up the heart of the house. And you know, she thought, it’s more than a house.

It’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> WELL I hope you enjoyed it and I hope you're now educated in identifying one's waffle shape  
> do you know your waffle shape   
> you know you have one
> 
> feedback is great i like feedback tell me what you like, what's weird, what I mess up  
> just tell me things!


End file.
